


Getting There

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-19
Updated: 2006-03-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: After Enterprise learns of the Xindi attack on Earth, Tucker shuts everyone out. When Reed is injured, Tucker is forced to reconsider his options. Missing scenes, 2.26 "The Expanse." (11/04/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers, 2.26 "The Expanse."  
  
Beta: The fabulous, and quick, Reedfem.  
  
This is my response to Kate Kernshaw's birthday request. Her birthday is September 11th, and she wanted fic appropriate to that date. I hope you think this fits. The story is set during the episode 2.26 "The Expanse," and is my version of how T/R went from fighting in the corridor to apparently being friends again by the time of 3.01 "The Xindi." Thanks go to Kageygirl for suggesting a possible location for Lizzie's home.  


* * *

Jonathan Archer, captain of Earth's first—and so far only—warp five starship, was a worried man. He had big, Earth-shattering worries pressing down on him every day now, and most nights in his dreams. They elbowed the smaller, more personal worries aside, pushing them further and further down his list of things that needed to be done. He worried about that too. Now though, he had an hour between meetings and was determined to spend it concentrating on one

of those smaller worries.

He stood, tray in hand, and surveyed the Starfleet cafeteria, looking for his armoury officer. A small smile twitched at his lips when he spotted his target. Malcolm Reed had positioned himself midway between the two doors, back to the wall, with a commanding view of the whole room. Not that he was making use of this tactically advantageous position at the moment, Archer noticed. Currently the lieutenant was staring into the mug clasped between his hands, his

apparently abandoned meal pushed to one side. He looked glum. There were a lot of glum faces in Starfleet Headquarters these days, but Reed's glumness seemed more internal, more lonely. He looked as if his reason for living had been snatched away from him. Which maybe it had, Archer reflected sadly.

'Malcolm.' Archer placed his tray on the table and slid into the chair opposite Reed. 'Mind if I join you?'

Reed jumped. 'Er, no. Of course not, sir. Please.'

He'd startled the man. Not a good sign. Normally the armoury officer would have spotted him long before he reached the table—never relaxing his alert state even in such a friendly setting. Archer started to eat, suddenly realising how hungry he was. Breakfast had been a long time ago. There was so much to do these days; eating was another thing that tended to get pushed down the list of priorities.

'This is good,' he said, round a mouthful of steak. 'Pasta not to your liking?' He nodded towards Reed's scarcely touched meal.

'No, it's fine, sir. I just wasn't very hungry.'

'Hmm.' He tried to sound as if he believed the excuse. 'How are your briefings going? You met the MACOs this morning?'

'Yes, sir. Some of them anyway. Major Hayes seems to be a capable officer.'

Archer noted the slight hint of disapproval in Reed's tone. 'Problems?'

'Nothing I can't handle, sir.'

It was obvious Reed didn't want to elaborate, but Archer looked at him pointedly, making it clear he expected more.

'There was some discussion about chain of command, but I think we all understand our positions now, sir.'

'These people are coming on board to help us, Malcolm. They report to you, but it would be best to keep things on an amicable footing. You need to be able to work together.'

'Yes, sir. It will be fine, Captain. We all know where we stand now.'

'Good.' Archer decided that it was time to broach the real reason for this chat. 'I wanted to ask you about Trip. How's he holding up?'

Archer watched as the light in Reed's eyes died and his shutters slid into place. Damn, he thought, disappointed to have his suspicions of a serious rift between Reed and Tucker confirmed.

'Commander Tucker is finding the attack—his loss, difficult to deal with. His main aim now is to get Enterprise ready to go after the Xindi. He doesn't have much time for...anything else.'

'Is he still having trouble sleeping? I know he was having nightmares. Did Phlox manage to help him?' Oh, subtle, Jon, nice going, he sighed mentally. Just ask him if they're still sleeping together, why don't you?

Reed gazed at a point over Archer's left shoulder. Not so much scanning the room as avoiding looking at his captain. 'I'm afraid I can't answer that, sir,' he said quietly.

'Oh. I thought, with you and Trip—'

'There is no 'me and Trip', not any more. He told me...when we went to visit the site...he made it very clear that he wants...needs, to grieve alone. That he doesn't have time for...that neither of us...' There was a pause while Reed visibly gathered himself together. Archer waited patiently, knowing that any recognition of the stammered explanation, and the emotions it betrayed, would only embarrass the lieutenant. 'Commander Tucker, Trip, thinks it would be inappropriate for either of us to be in a relationship now—with the mission.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, Malcolm.'

Archer studied the man in front of him. To a casual observer he appeared to be calm and in control, but Archer was becoming adept at reading his armoury officer's expressions, and looking behind the public mask, he could see the pain reflected in Reed's grey eyes.

'These things happen, sir. If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to prepare for.' He stood abruptly and had turned towards the nearest door before Archer's voice stopped him.

'Is there anything I can do, Malcolm?'

'No. Thank you, but I don't think so, sir. I don't think there's anything anyone can do.'

Archer watched as Reed threaded his way through the tables to the door. Damn, he thought again, so now both his chief engineer and his armoury officer were alone and suffering. He sat for a moment trying to come up with some way to sort things out between the two men, then his communicator chirped and the bigger worries elbowed their way in again.

* * *

Reed hadn't lied when he told Captain Archer that he had a meeting scheduled, but he had exaggerated. His next appointment was a final briefing on the new photonic torpedoes, and it wasn't for another ninety minutes, but he'd had to get away. He could not sit and calmly discuss with the captain the breakdown of his relationship with Trip. Problems, he corrected himself angrily—problems with their relationship, not breakdown.

He walked through the corridors of Starfleet Headquarters, hoping that his progress didn't look like the aimless wandering that it really was. He needed to find somewhere quiet, somewhere private, where he could collect his thoughts and compose himself ready for his briefing. Out of one of the stairwell windows he caught sight of the arboretum flanking the building. There were seclud ed paths there with benches set amongst the trees, and he knew that at this time of day he was unlikely to be disturbed. The arboretum would be ideal.

Ten minutes later he was seated on a bench constructed around the trunk of a horse chestnut tree. The spreading branches and broad, palmate leaves provided a circle of comparative cool and shade, a respite from the San Francisco sun. He leaned back against the trunk, looking up to search among the panicles of dying flowers for embryonic nuts, smiling briefly over remembered childhood conker fights. Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift, almost inevitably, back to a happier time.

* * *

Malcolm woke immediately the alarm went off and quickly reached across to deactivate it before the buzzing woke his partner. Trip's shift today began four hours later than Malcolm's, there was no reason for them both to be disturbed. His movement registered with the still sleeping Trip and the arm draped round Malcolm's waist reflexively tightened its grip. Deciding he could afford another five minutes in bed, Malcolm lay back and turned to study the man lying alongside him. He loved this: waking in Trip's bed, in Trip's arms—safe, secure, loved.

Trip was sleeping on his stomach, his head turned towards Malcolm. His dark blond hair was tousled, spiking in all directions. He looked relaxed and peaceful, his face creased from sleep, his slightly parted lips fluttering with each huffed exhalation. As Malcolm watched, the sandy lashes stirred. Trip blinked once or twice then fixed Malcolm with a still dozy blue gaze.

'Morning, darlin'.' Trip stretched like a cat, tensing and relaxing all his muscles in turn, before leaning across for a kiss.

It was a 'good morning' soft and gentle brushing of the lips, almost casual. Then Trip pulled himself closer, supporting himself on the arm that had circled Malcolm's waist and throwing one leg across Malcolm's thighs as he deepened the kiss. Malcolm's mumbled protest only served to give Trip's tongue access to his mouth, and for a minute or two they were lost in each other. Eventually Malcolm, reluctantly, pulled away.

'I have to get up, Trip. I'm on duty in an hour.'

'You don't need to go yet, do you? Think what we could do in an hour.' Trip waggled his eyebrows suggestively, one hand stroking Malcolm's belly.

'I am thinking of it,' Malcolm said with a grin. 'But I still need to get up. I need my breakfast. You didn't give me time to finish dinner last night, if you remember.' He caught hold of Trip's hand, stopping its southward progress and lifting it to plant a kiss on the palm.

'I let you have dessert,' Trip objected. 'In fact, I insisted on it. Vanilla ice cream with butterscotch sauce.'

'Very messy,' Malcolm said, with mock seriousness. 'It took forever to clean up.'

'That was the whole point, darlin'. Oh look, I missed a bit.' He bent his head to suckle at one of Malcolm's nipples, laughing as his lover's body arched into the touch.

'Trip, stop. Argh, bastard ,' he yelped, as Trip shifted to nip sharply at an earlobe. 'Seriously, love, I have to get up now,' he said, giving Trip a quick kiss on the nose in compensation before reluctantly wriggling out of bed and heading for the shower.

By the time Malcolm was dressed and ready for his breakfast, Trip was almost asleep again, but he did rouse himself as Malcolm leaned down for a farewell kiss.

'Bye, darlin'. See you later?'

'Of course, love. Wild horses couldn't keep me away.' Malcolm stroked a thumbnail gently down the side of Trip's face. 'Sorry I've got to go now. I'll

make it up to you tonight.'

'See that you do.'

'I'll be worth the wait, I promise.'

'I'll hold you to that.'

'Oh good. I do love it when you hold me,' Malcolm smirked. 'Tonight.'

'Tonight,' Trip echoed, already drifting off to sleep as the door slid shut behind Malcolm.

But there was no 'tonight'. Three hours after he left Trip's quarters that morning they and the rest of the senior staff were called together and told the news of the attack on Earth. There was no 'tonight' that night, and there hadn't been since.

The Xindi probe's trail of destruction had started in Florida. Trip's baby sister, Lizzie, lived in Florida and he was frantic with worry.

At the start of the month-long journey back to Earth, Malcolm alternated between encouraging Trip to believe that 'no news is good news' and trying to console him when he insisted on believing the worst. As the weeks passed and there was still no word about Lizzie, Trip became more and more distant, isolating himself in engineering, burying himself in his work. Malcolm concentrated on making sure Trip ate and slept, occasionally trying to persuade him to talk about his fears instead of bottling them up inside. Then late one night, Malcolm took a tray to Trip's office in engineering—cocoa for himself, warm milk for Trip, and a plate of biscuits. Trip barely acknowledge Malcolm's presence, just mumbled a half-hearted thanks and went on with his work. Worried, Malcolm pressed him to eat and drink.

'I'm not hungry.'

'You said that at lunchtime, Trip. And at dinner. The captain said—'

Trip rounded on him, furiously. 'What, you discussing me with the cap'n now? Dissecting what I eat, what I say!'

'Only because we're worried about you. _I'm_ worried about you, Trip. You won't talk to me anymore.'

'See, there you go again, trying to make me talk. Always pressing and probing, wanting to know what I think, how I feel.' Trip was on his feet, pacing the tiny office; two strides one way, turn, two strides back, head down, shoulders hunched, hands clenching and unclenching. 'It would be funny, you know—buttoned up, tight-assed Lieutenant Reed giving me lectures on sharing my feelings, baring my soul. It would be funny, if it wasn't so damn tragic.'

'I just want—'

'I know what you want, Malcolm.' Trip came to a halt in front of Malcolm, shouting in his face. 'You want me to talk about Lizzie. To accept that she'd dead.'

'No I—' he started, but Trip wasn't listening.

'You want me to say that she was sitting at her desk and some damned alien probe came and blew her away, her and millions of others, and all because of something that won't happen for four hundred years. You want me to talk about Lizzie, but you don't understand. If I talk...if I say it, it makes it true. If I talk about her she'll be dead, and I don't know what I'll do if...if...' Blue eyes awash with tears met Malcolm's briefly, then Trip turned away, taking the two strides that put him as far from Malcolm as was possible in the confined space. 'Just leave me alone, Malcolm.'

'Trip, I'm sorry.' Malcolm moved to stand behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, but Trip shrugged it off roughly.

'You just don't get it, do you, Malcolm?' he said without turning. 'I don't want your comfort, your pity. I don't want you constantly hanging around being sorry. I just want to be left alone.'

Malcolm understood that Trip's hurtful remarks were a deliberate tactic, an attempt to push him away, and he was torn between wanting to shake sense into Trip and wanting to wrap his arms around him and shield him from the pain. In the end he did neither.

'I'm sorry you feel like that, Trip,' he said quietly. 'I'll go now, but you know if ever you want...anything. You know where to find me.' He waited a moment hoping for some response, but when none came he simply said, 'Drink your milk, Trip, before it gets cold,' and left.

For the rest of Enterprise's journey home, the two men barely spoke outside the necessities of duty. Trip seemed to cut himself off even more from the rest of the crew, but whether he missed Malcolm, or even noticed that his lover was doing what he'd asked—leaving him alone—was impossible to tell.

Malcolm, for his part, hid his hurt and loss by focussing on his work, the irony of which occasionally struck him as funny, but more often just made him almost painfully sad.

He and Trip had never officially moved in together, so it was a simple matter for Malcolm to revert to exclusive use of his own quarters. Trip's quarters were only slightly larger than his, but now he found that his own windowless room was cramped and too small, and at the same time, empty and too large. It no longer felt like home.

When Enterprise reached Earth, battered from their run-in with the Klingons, Malcolm had elected to stay on board to assist with repairs and the refit, rather than take any of his leave entitlement. He didn't think he had enough in

common with his parents to want to visit them, particularly now when he was feeling vulnerable. His father would see the pain in his heart, root it out and

parade it in front of him as a weakness. He did want to meet with his sister, Madeline. She was the only one of his family he'd told about Trip and she'd been looking forward to meeting him when Enterprise finally returned to Earth. But the thought of having to explain things was more than he could face at the moment. Like Trip, he didn't want to be pitied or comforted; he didn't want to talk about what had happened and make it real.

Trip took a few days leave to visit his family. When he returned to Enterprise he was, if possible, even more withdrawn and silent. Malcolm ached to hold him, to wrap him in his arms and take the pain away. He was finding it increasingly difficult to be in Trip's presence and not be allowed to offer help or consolation, and had taken to avoiding places where he thought the engineer might be.

When he walked into the mess hall late one night, looking for a hot drink to help him sleep, and saw Trip there, he nearly turned right around and left. As he hesitated in the doorway, Trip glanced up and saw him, and suddenly there was no way Malcolm could walk out and have Trip realise that he was the reason. So he collected a mug of cocoa from the drinks dispenser and walked over to the table where Trip sat.

'Hello,' he said. 'Mind if I join you?'

Trip shook his head, but didn't speak. Malcolm sat opposite him and hugged his mug—occupying his hands to stop him reaching out to touch his lover.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Malcolm couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound banal, that wouldn't drive Trip further away. Then Trip surprised him by asking him a question.

'Can...can I ask you something, Malcolm?'

'Yes, of course, love. You know you can.' He bit his lip at the term of endearment, which slipped out automatically, but Trip didn't seem to notice.

'You know I went to see my parents?'

'Yes.'

'They haven't been to...to see...' His eyes flickered up to meet Malcolm's, briefly. Apparently satisfied at what he saw there, Trip continued. 'They want to remember it as it was, but I need to see it. I need to see for myself what's left—what's gone.'

Trip fell silent and Malcolm watched him fiddle with the fastening of his uniform cuff, worrying at a loose thread he found hanging.

He thought he knew what Trip was asking, but had his heart in his mouth in case he was wrong as he asked, 'Would you like some company?

'If you don't mind.' Trip looked relieved that he'd been understood without having to put the request into words. ' I'd ask the cap'n, but he's been so busy, and I thought maybe...'

'Of course I don't mind.' He couldn't resist—he reached across the table and gripped Trip's arm. Trip didn't react, but at least he didn't pull away either, Malcolm told himself. 'When do you want to go?'

'Tomorrow, if that's okay with you?'

'Whenever you want, Trip. Just let me know the time.'

'Sure. Thanks. I guess I should go to bed, try and get some sleep.' Now Trip did pull his arm away from Malcolm's hand as he stood, still without acknowledging the touch. 'See you in the morning.'

* * *

Malcolm wasn't sure what he was expecting of the visit to Palmdale, or what Trip was expecting of him. But Trip had asked—actually asked—for his company. It was the first request Trip had made of him since he'd told Malcolm to leave him alone, and whatever it turned out that Trip needed from him, Malcolm was prepared to give.

Lizzie's home had been in one of the areas still cordoned off as unsafe. The public were not yet allowed in, but as someone who had lost a close relative, Trip had been given special permission. They left the shuttlepod on a school playing-field and walked to where what the media had dubbed the Xindi Trench cut through the heart of the small town.

Their impromptu landing pad was in a virtually undamaged area, but they hadn't gone far along the deserted streets before they started to see signs of the devastation that had destroyed this community. At first it was just broken windows, a fallen fence, a streetlight tilted at a crazy angle; then buildings with structural cracks, fallen walls, scorched and blackened timbers. They passed a dry cleaners whose side wall had collapsed—rows of garments in dusty plastic bags still hanging on the rails. None of this was any worse than the aftermath of a fairly major earthquake, but their foreknowledge of what was to come hung over them like a pall. They rounded a corner and saw the trench.

They had both watched vids of the damage at various places along its route, but nothing they had seen could have possibly prepared them for the reality of the trench close up.

Trench was not a big enough word for what lay before them, Malcolm thought. A trench was something man-made, something small and protective. What lay in front of them could not be called a trench. It was a ravine, a canyon—a chasm cruelly gouged into the surface of the Earth. Buildings along its edge were broken and charred, incinerated. On the far side, two or more kilometres away, he could see palm trees silhouetted against the clouds, but between him and the trees there was nothing but desolation.

Trip walked until he was standing almost on the lip of the trench, Malcolm following to stand alongside him. They stared out across the wasteland, overwhelmed. There was the glint of water in the distant depths, and Malcolm found himself puzzling why the whole thing wasn't flooded, his mind resolutely focussing on such insignificant questions rather than having to contemplate the horror before his eyes.

'I'm so sorry.' As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Malcolm wished he could have taken them back. The sentiment was sincere enough, God help him, but faced with this devastation, it felt totally inadequate. He needn't have worried, Trip seemed scarcely to have heard.

'The house was over there, less than a kilometre,' he said, in a flat, beaten voice, indicating across the void. 'See over there?' He pointed to a badly damaged building on the edge of the trench. 'There was an old movie theatre. When we were kids, I didn't take my sister with me, she'd scream like a banshee.'

'Are you certain she was here when this happened?' Malcolm knew he was grasping at straws, but the stunned look on Trip's face, the pain in his voice, were almost too much for him to bear. He had to say something to try and connect with the man, with his lover, to offer comfort.

'Someone would have heard from her if she wasn't,' Trip sighed, unable to tear his eyes away from the now non-existent point where Lizzie's house had stood.

'Oh, Lizzie.'

Trip sniffed and dragged a sleeve across his eyes. It was the first sign Malcolm had seen of Trip letting his emotions surface. Tentatively he reached out and placed a hand on Trip's arm.

'Trip?'

There was no reaction, so he took a step closer.

''Trip. It's all right, love. Let me help.'

'Stop it!' Trip angrily shook Malcolm's hand off his arm. 'You don't know what you're talking about. It's not all right. How can...this, be all right? How can Lizzie being dead be all right?'

'That's not what I meant, Trip.' In spite of himself, Malcolm could feel his temper building, reacting to Trip's unjust words, as he said, 'I just want to help you. Why won't you let me help?'

'Did it ever occur to you that I don't want your help? That I don't need you following me around like some prophet of doom, constantly reminding me that Lizzie's dead, urging me to talk, to get over it, to feel better?'

Trip turned and walked a few steps away, his shoulders hunched, shaking almost imperceptibly. Malcolm thought he was crying. He wanted—needed—to touch him, hold him, to show Trip that he wasn't alone, that no matter what he thought, Malcolm did understand. His lover was hurting and even against his better judgement Malcolm was compelled to go to him, to put a hand on his shoulder, to try and offer comfort.

'Jesus, Malcolm! What part of 'leave me alone' don't you understand?'

'Trip, I'm sorry. I'm worried about you. Isn't that natural? Let me help, please love. What sort of boyfriend would I be if I left you to cope with all this on your own?'

'Yeah, well, about that. I've been thinking.' Trip turned away towards the trench, not looking at Malcolm. 'This new mission changes things. We're not explorers any more. We're at war now, and you shouldn't go into a war with...encumbrances.'

'Trip?' Malcolm stared at him, desperately trying to deny what he was hearing. 'What are you saying? You're breaking up with me?'

'It's for the best, Malcolm. Neither of us is going to have any time for a relationship now. It's not as if we've been seeing much of each other lately anyway,' he shrugged.

'Don't do this, Trip, please. We could work things out. I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want, but please don't do this.'

'It's for the best, Malcolm,' Trip repeated. 'I'm going for a walk now. I'll see you back at the shuttle at 1400 hours.'

Malcolm stood and watched as Trip made his way over to the remains of the movie theatre. He felt disorientated, numb, light-headed. His chest was hurting and he realised that he was holding his breath. The gasp as he forced himself to start breathing again brought him back to reality. He felt nauseous and his legs trembled as if they were about to refuse to support him. His eyes were blurred by unshed tears, which he hastily dashed away as he staggered to sit on a nearby pile of fallen masonry. His mind kept repeating over and over, Trip's broken up with me, Trip's broken up with me, yet he somehow couldn't process the thought. He felt as though he'd been kicked, beaten—he felt...he didn't know what he felt. Or even if he felt anything. He sat on his pile of rubble and watched as Trip turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Alone in the midst of destruction and desolation, Malcolm stared out over the Xindi Trench and wept for all that had been lost.

* * *

The days and weeks passed. Tucker and Reed were both fully occupied with Enterprise's refit, each trying to bury their sorrows by throwing themselves into their work.

Trip's grief evolved into a need for vengeance. Privately Malcolm thought Trip was clinging to the idea of revenge like a lifeline, using his hatred of the Xindi as a way of avoiding facing Elizabeth's death. But there was nothing he could do about it; Trip wouldn't listen to him and Malcolm didn't feel that he could broach the subject with Captain Archer. Truth be told Malcolm was worried that the captain and Trip were each feeding the other's need to get back at the Xindi, stoking each other's hatred. Though in the captain's case, he suspected it was out of a need to steel himself for the mission ahead.

Archer was a good captain. Although they didn't always see eye to eye on matters of security, Malcolm had come to respect him and had eventually got used

to his relaxed command style. But Archer was an explorer at heart—discovering new worlds, meeting new peoples, making new friends—this was what he had enjoyed so much. It was what he had trained for, what he felt was a good and proper use of his father's engine. Now he was being asked to lead Enterprise, and by default Earth, into a war with the Xindi, and already the pressure was telling.

Malcolm sometimes wondered how the captain would cope when they reached the Delphic Expanse. Archer and Tucker had known each other for so long, were such close friends, that it probably seemed natural to them to share their hate, as they had shared laughter in the past. But Malcolm worried about them both. This level of hate, this depth of pain, could not be sustained indefinitely, and what would happen when one or both of them finally couldn't take any more? All Malcolm could do was resolve to be there for each of them when that time came.

* * *

Malcolm and Trip settled into a new, purely professional, working relationship. They could speak to each other on duty, and occasionally off, with what passed for ease. Some days Malcolm found harder than others. Sometimes a whole

shift would pass without the pain surfacing, others, it seemed everything reminded him of what he had lost and he had to fight to stop his emotions overwhelming him.

Yesterday Malcolm had been working at his bridge station, assisting the space dock crew with the upgrades, when Trip's voice came over the comm.

'Tucker to Reed.'

In spite of his best intentions, he couldn't help how his body reacted to the sound of Trip's voice—how his heart-rate quickened and his breath shortened, how a smile tried to leap to his lips.

'Reed here.' 'Your guys have left torpedo parts cluttering up the engineering storeroom. We don't have room for this stuff. Get them to move it.'

Trip's voice was cold, emotionless—there was no love in his tone, scarcely friendship even. Malcolm felt tears spring to his eyes and hastily lowered his head to conceal them, fighting to keep his own voice steady as he replied.

'Understood, sir.'

He commed two of his department to move the parts, then had to make an excuse to leave the bridge while he collected himself.

Yesterday had been one of the bad days. Today had started better, but it was rapidly going downhill.

'Why are you so obsessed with memorials?'

Trip was striding along the corridor, not looking at Malcolm who was following slightly behind, cursing his stupidity.

They'd been in the armoury, Malcolm giving Trip a report on how far they'd progressed with the installation of the new photonic torpedoes. The refit was almost complete, Starfleet had approved their orders and Enterprise would be leaving Earth orbit soon. Malcolm couldn't help himself, he'd had to ask Trip if there was going to be a service for Lizzie. Immediately the almost friendly atmosphere had evaporated and the cold, hard expression had returned to Trip's eyes as he pointed out the futility of a funeral without a body, then flung his accusation. Malcolm stopped, fighting down the hurt, as he attempted to retrieve the situation.

'I'm not obsessed,' he protested.

Tucker finally turned to look at him, swinging his arms wide as he yelled at Malcolm. 'She's dead. So are seven million others. She was no more important than any of them.'

Malcolm couldn't believe what he was hearing.

'She was more important to you,' he said, moving closer to the other man. 'There's nothing wrong with admitting that.'

'I'm getting real tired of you telling me what I can and can't do,' Trip snarled at him, his fury hitting Malcolm like a bucket of cold water. 'And while we're at it, I don't need you to remind me that Elizabeth was killed. So let it alone!'

Trip looked to be on the verge of tears and Malcolm turned his face away to hide his own pain, but when Trip started walking again, Malcolm made to follow.

Another mistake.

Trip swung round, forcing Malcolm to stop short, jabbing a finger in his face to punctuate his angry words.

'Maybe you should pay more attention to upgrading your weapons so we can blow the hell out of these bastards when we find them.'

This time, as Trip turned and walked away Malcolm stood in the corridor, too stunned to think of anything to say that wouldn't just make this appalling confrontation even worse.

* * *

Captain Archer was worried again—when was he not, these days, he thought. He'd heard about Tucker and Reed's altercation in the corridor. He knew that the relationship between the two men had broken down, but this was the first indication he'd had of their personal problems interfering with their duties. True, he didn't know exactly what had happened, just a third- or fourth-hand tale that Hoshi Sato had tactfully drawn to his attention. But that version of events was bad enough to make him decide to tackle Tucker about it.

He chose after dinner, in the captain's mess. T'Pol had left before dessert, and now that the steward had cleared the dishes they wouldn't be disturbed.

They were lingering over their coffee. There was a bottle of bourbon on the table that Archer had brought from his quarters—he thought it might help make the conversation easier, and anyway, he was tired of drinking alone. He fetched a couple of glasses from a cupboard and poured a hefty slug into each.

'Here,' he pushed one glass across to Tucker. 'You look as if you could use it.'

'Thanks, Cap'n, been a rough day,' Tucker admitted, sniffing the bourbon then taking an appreciative sip. 'Hey, you brought the good stuff. What's the occasion?' he joked, weakly.

'Just a drink with a friend, Trip. We don't get enough time for this now—just to sit, share a drink and talk.'

Tucker stiffened fractionally and threw him a wary glance. 'Yeah, well, I guess none of us feels like talking much these days.'

Archer nodded his agreement and they sat in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Eventually Archer stirred himself to refill their glasses.

'I heard about what happened today,' he said. 'You and Malcolm fighting.'

'You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Cap'n,' Tucker sighed. 'I've heard the gossip too. Wasn't like that. Was just a discussion, not a fight. Not really a fight,' he ended quietly, fidgeting with his glass.

'Trip-'

'Cap'n, I appreciate your concern, but I really don't want to talk about this,' Tucker said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.

'Sit down, Commander,' Archer snapped.

Tucker sat, a mulish expression on his face.

'I received a report today that two of my senior officers were fighting, in public, Commander. What would you suggest that I do about that?'

'We weren't fighting, Cap'n. It was just words.' Tucker snatched up his glass and downed the contents. 'Malcolm...it's just sometimes he makes me so mad, fussing and all. I just lost my temper, that's all. Won't happen again.'

'Trip,' Archer said, more gently, 'You can tell me it's none of my business—'

'It's none of your business Cap'n.'

Archer gave Tucker a look.

'Sorry. But I really don't want to talk about this,' he reiterated.

'I know, Trip, but I do.' Archer gave him a half smile to take the sting out of his words before continuing. 'I've got two of my senior officers who can hardly bear to speak to one another,' he held up a hand to forestall Tucker's protest. 'And I've got a friend, two friends, who are in pain and suffering. There's no point in trying to talk to Malcolm about it. He'd just clam up and hide behind duty and a barrage of regulations. So I'm talking to you, Trip,

because we've been friends for what, ten, eleven years now? And whatever's happened, whatever we've done or said, good or bad, in that time, we've always been able to talk about it. You were good together, you and Malcolm. I thought you were serious, hoping to make it formal even. What the hell happened to split you up?'

'You have to ask that, Cap'n? You have to ask what happened?' Tucker fixed Archer with an angry glare. 'Why were we recalled? What are we preparing for? That's what happened.'

Archer frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers as he tried to follow Tucker's train of thought.

'Maybe I'm being dense here, but how does the attack on Earth mean you have to split up with Malcolm? I can't see that he'd be anything other than supportive over your sister. Did he say or do something to upset you? What? Give me a clue here, Trip, because I really don't see where you're coming from.'

Tucker ran a hand distractedly through his hair and got to his feet.

'No, he didn't do anything. Just his fussing and bothering all the time, it—got on my nerves. Always wanting me to talk to him about Lizzie—to accept that she's dead. Like I didn't know that already. Like talking about it would make it better, bring her back.' He was pacing agitatedly back and forth along the length of the table, not looking at Archer. 'I just couldn't take it any more, Cap'n. I had to get away—stay focussed on what we gotta do. I don't have time now for anything else.'

'Are you saying that you and Malcolm split up because you feel you have to concentrate on our mission, on finding the Xindi?'

'Yes! I need to stay focussed.' Tucker moved to stand with his back to Archer, restlessly straightening and rearranging the napkins and glasses on a side table. 'There's no room for...for involvements any more. For distractions.'

Archer was stunned. 'You broke up with Malcolm because he was a _distraction_? You can't be serious.'

Tucker swung round to face him. He was wound up so tight he looked as though he'd break and fly apart at the slightest touch. 'I thought you of all people would understand. We've got a new mission now—we gotta find the Xindi, stop them before they can attack Earth Get the bastards for what they've already done. All those people dead. Lizzie.' He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a shuddering breath. 'You didn't see what her death did to my folks—Mom crying all the time and m'father all twisted up inside 'cause there's nothing he can do to make it better, to take the pain away. It hurts so much, Jon. It's always been dangerous out there, but now it's so much worse. What would I do if I lost Malcolm too?' Tucker choked back a sob as his brittle facade crumbled. 'What would I do if he died and left me alone?'

'God, Trip.' Archer crossed quickly to his friend, wrapping him in a strong embrace. 'You can't push him away because you're frightened of losing him. That's not fair on either of you.' He held onto Tucker, giving the younger man time to compose himself, trying to impart comfort and support, but after only a moment or two, Tucker pulled away.

'There's nothing else I can do. I've got to concentrate on my job, on making sure Enterprise is good. We've got to get these Xindi bastards and make sure they can never hurt Earth again. I told you, I don't have room for anything else now. Not regrets, not mourning, not love. Malcolm will get over it. When we're out there and fighting, he won't want distractions either—he'll see it's for the best. Love is a weakness. Malcolm understands that—always has. Now it's a weakness we can't afford.'

Archer heard what Tucker was saying, but it was as though he was listening to a stranger. This man, coldly dismissing his lover as a distraction—this wasn't the man he knew. Tucker was open, gregarious, and deeply in love. Archer knew his sister's death had been a terrible blow, and that he hadn't been there for his friend as much as he'd have liked, but he'd expected Tucker to turn to his lover for support—not to push the man away as an inconvenient weakness!

'You can't do this to yourself, Trip, and to Malcolm. Life is for living, and for loving, otherwise it has no meaning.'

'So maybe my life does have no meaning now.'

'You don't mean that. Of course your life has meaning. I know you've lost a lot, but you still have Malcolm. Don't throw that away, Trip. It's too special just to throw away.'

'No. I can't afford that now. To be involved—worrying, distracted, waiting for him to come back safe from every away mission, wondering every time we say goodbye if it's going to be the last. One day I'll lose him, and then what?

It's too difficult, Jon, too painful. It's for the best. He'll understand, you'll see.'

'Trip...' Archer began, trying to find something, anything, to change his friend's mind. But there was nothing.

It didn't help that half of him understood Tucker's reasons, sympathised with them. He spent enough time these days shutting people out, closing off his own emotions in preparation for what was to come; worrying about the huge responsibility placed on his shoulders and the safety of his crew, his friends.

He'd even considered leaving Porthos behind when Enterprise shipped out on her new mission. But he had no one to leave him with. Enterprise was the dog's home, everyone he knew was on board, leaving him with strangers would have been cruel. And anyway, he'd miss his pet's unconditional, uncritical love, he was forced to admit.

'I need to get back to engineering, Cap'n,' Trip said, interrupting his thoughts. 'We're running tests on the upgrades.'

Archer just nodded as Tucker turned and left the room. He stood for a while staring at the place where Tucker had been, Then he reached for his glass and swallowed the dregs of the bourbon before pouring himself a refill. Drinking alone again, he reflected with a sigh.

* * *

Archer didn't bring up the subject of Tucker and Reed's relationship with either of them again. He did make a point of spending more time with Tucker, trying to share at least one meal a day with his friend. He supposed it was because of this that, a couple of days before Enterprise was due to leave, Tucker asked Archer if he'd accompany him on a last visit to Florida.

'I don't know when I'll be back here, Cap'n—if I'll be back, even. I'd just like to see the place one more time. Say goodbye.'

Archer agreed, of course, and now he was making his way to the shuttle-bay to meet up with Tucker for the flight down to Earth. He'd just reached the turbo-lift when the comm sounded.

'Bridge to Archer.'

He moved to the nearest comm panel and acknowledged the call.

'Sir, I have Admiral Forrest for you,' Ensign Parker, the beta shift comm operator, informed him. 'He's asking if you can be available for a conference call with Starfleet Command and the Vulcan Delegation in one hour?'

Damn! Archer thumped his head against the bulkhead in frustration. However politely it was phrased, he was in no doubt that the Admiral's 'request' was in fact an order. If only the call had been half an hour later! No, who was he kidding? If the call had been later he would just have had to return to the ship.

'Sir?' the comm operator asked, hesitantly.

'Sorry, Ensign. You can tell Admiral Forrest that will be fine. Does the Admiral need to speak with me now?'

'One moment, sir.' There was a short pause, then the operator continued, 'The Admiral would like a few minutes of your time now, sir, if that's possible.'

'I'll take the call in my ready room, Ensign. Tell the Admiral I'll be with him in five minutes, please. Archer out.'

The Admiral would have to wait while he spoke to Trip and explained what had happened. He hit the control for the turbo-lift and waited for it to arrive. When it did so, Lieutenant Reed stepped out, and Archer had an idea.

'Malcolm,' he accosted the other man, 'just come off duty?' 'Yes, sir.'

'Are you doing anything, got anything planned for this afternoon?'

'I was going to run some simulations on the targeting scanners for the photonic torpedoes.' 'But nothing that can't wait, right?'

'Well, I suppose so, sir,' Reed said, biting down the urge to point out how important it was that their weapons were functioning at full efficiency. 'Was there something you wanted me to do?'

'Yes, Malcolm, there is. I'm supposed to be going with Trip to Florida. He wants to pay a last visit before we leave and asked if I'd go with him. But I've just had a call from Admiral Forrest wanting me in a meeting in an hour. He's on the line now, waiting to speak with me.' He saw distress and pain flash across Reed's face as he obviously realised what his captain was about to

ask, and he did wonder briefly if he was doing the right thing. Too late to back out now, he told himself as he continued, 'I was hoping maybe you could take my place and keep Trip company.'

'I'm not sure that's a good idea, sir. Trip and I aren't...we're not getting along very well at present. I'm not sure he'd want me there.'

'Malcolm, I know the two of you have problems.' Archer reached out to grip Reed's shoulder in what he hoped would be seen as a friendly gesture. 'But I really don't want Trip to have to go there alone. You may not be his first choice, but at least you understand him, what he's going through. I'm not ordering you to do this, Malcolm, if you really don't want to, I'll understand. But I am asking you. For Trip's sake.'

'You're right, he shouldn't go there on his own,' Reed said, his resolve crumbling. 'If you really think he won't mind?'

'Thank you, Malcolm. It'll be fine, I'm certain. I have to go, I've kept the Admiral waiting long enough. The shuttle leaves at 1300 hours. You've just

got time to change,' Archer said, vaguely indicating his own civilian dress, as he stepped into the turbo-lift and was whisked away.

Left alone in the corridor, Reed checked the time. He had fifteen minutes before he needed to be at the shuttle-bay. Time enough either to change out of his uniform or to call into the armoury and arrange for the duty crew to run some of the simulations, but not to do both. There was no question in his mind which was the more important. It's not as if I'm not perfectly comfortable in my uniform, he thought, as he made his way to the armoury.

* * *

Malcolm entered the shuttle-bay at 1257 hours. As the bay doors closed behind him, Trip leaned out of the 'pod's open hatch.

'There you are, Cap'n. I was beginning...'

Trip trailed off as he noticed the newcomer wasn't the captain, and Malcolm tried not to feel hurt at the disappointment that clouded the engineer's expression.

'I'm sorry, Trip,' he said. 'Captain Archer's been detained, a conference with Admiral Forrest, I believe. He asked me to take his place. To go with you.'

Trip climbed fully out of the 'pod and scrubbed a hand across his face as he turned to face Malcolm.

'That's not necessary, Malcolm. I don't need my hand held. I'm sure you've got work you should be doing.'

Malcolm winced inwardly at the dismissal. This had been a bad idea. He hadn't been thinking straight when Captain Archer approached him; he'd let his desire to help Trip, his need for the man's company, overrule his common sense.

But he was here now, and he'd promised the captain that he wouldn't let Trip make this journey alone.

'I realise you don't want my company, Trip, but the captain asked me to go with you, and that's what I'm going to do. I'm sorry,' he said again.

'If you're coming, sirs, you need to get on board,' Michael Rostov's voice called from inside the shuttle, reminding them both that their conversation could be heard by everyone inside. 'We're cleared to leave in two minutes.'

Trip sighed. 'Fine, come if you want to,' he muttered.

The flight down was a nightmare for Malcolm. The shuttle was full of crewmen taking a final opportunity to visit home before Enterprise left Earth. Trip had saved the seat next to his for the captain and Malcolm couldn't bring himself to ask one of the others to swap. It wasn't as if he didn't want to be sitting alongside Trip, pressed together at shoulder and thigh in the crowded space, but to be so close and to no longer have the privilege to enjoy it was almost more than he could bear. He wasn't the only person in uniform by any means, but alongside Trip, in his jeans and green and blue checked shirt, Malcolm felt stuffy and overdressed, and he found himself wishing he'd said to hell with the simulations and made time to change.

The shuttle dropped them at the local airfield and they took ground transport to Palmdale. It was a scant few weeks since they had been here last, but as soon as they entered the town Malcolm could see the difference. The public had finally been granted access and clearance and building work had started. On

their last visit they had been alone in the area, now, while the streets were not crowded, there were still a good number of people around, some of them working, some of them obviously doing what he and Trip were doing.

Having left their transport in a parking lot, Trip set out to walk to where the trench cut through the town, Malcolm trailing a step behind him. They reached the spot where they had argued on their last visit, and Malcolm noticed that his pile of rubble had been cleared away. Trip stood for a while looking out towards where Lizzie's home had been. When he started to walk once again, Malcolm moved to follow. Trip stopped in his tracks and turned to face him.

'Lieutenant!' he started exasperatedly. He stopped, took a deep breath and started again, more calmly. 'Malcolm, I know you're doing what the cap'n asked, that you're trying to help, but I just need some time alone.'

'But...'

'Look, I've spent half my life here. I'm not going to get lost or fall in the damn trench! I just want some time to think—alone. You can wait for me in

the parking lot, or you can go sight-seeing on your own, but please, stop following me around!' Trip snapped.

Malcolm didn't say anything as Trip turned and, just like last time, walked away from him towards the old movie theatre.

In spite of the fact that he didn't seriously believe Trip to be in any danger, Malcolm found himself reluctant to leave him to wander around alone. He

needed to be there, available, in the admittedly unlikely event that Trip needed

him. So he let Trip get a couple of hundred metres away then started to discreetly follow him.

For almost an hour the two of them wandered the streets of Palmdale. Malcolm followed as Trip visited the places that were left that had significance for him—watched as Trip sat on the steps of the library, as he wandered through a boarded up shopping plaza, as he leaned against a wall and stared blindly ahead. He was almost certain that Trip was aware of his presence, and he took comfort from that, and from his not having been challenged and chased off.

They were both periodically greeted by the other people they passed—Trip occasionally stopping to talk, Malcolm just giving a nod or brief word in acknowledgement. Malcolm paid only a very cursory notice to the town itself, or the people. Palmdale was not an alien planet, there was no potential danger here on Earth and it felt good to be able to relax his armoury officer facade, even if that did just leave him free to wallow in memories of the two of them in happier times.

They were in a badly damaged area of town with few other people around. Trip strolled along the driveway of what Malcolm thought might have been a college, though the building was badly damaged. Malcolm paused by the gate, not

wanting to follow too closely.

A young woman approached , smiling, and said hello. Malcolm nodded and returned her greeting, his eyes on Trip, who was approaching the building. He reluctantly dragged his attention back to the woman when he realised she had stopped and was addressing him.

'You're with Starfleet, aren't you?' The smile slipped from her face as she asked, 'Did you lose someone in the attack?'

'Yes,' Malcolm said, still watching Trip. 'And no. I'm with Starfleet, but no one I know was killed.' He didn't want to get into a conversation, and even if he had, Trip's loss was none of her business.

Two men walked past, with a general 'hello' in Malcolm's direction. He returned the greeting with a perfunctory nod. They caught the woman's eye, and she also nodded at them.

Trip disappeared round the side of the building and Malcolm started down the drive after him, when the woman spoke again.

'Enterprise,' she said, raising a hand to ghost her fingers over the badge on his sleeve. 'You're from Enterprise.'

'Yes,' he acknowledged, briefly. 'I'm sorry, I have to go.'

'You're to blame for this, you know.'

She spoke in the same pleasant conversational tone as previously and it took a moment for her words to sink in. When they did, they pulled him up short.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Enterprise.' She waved an arm in the direction of the trench, approximately 300 metres away. 'This is your fault.'

'I'm sorry,' Malcolm said, confused.

'It's a bit late for that,' a male voice said, close behind him.

Before he could react, he was grabbed roughly by both arms and thrown back against the gatepost, his head impacting against the concrete with a crack, making him see stars.

Malcolm shook his head, trying to clear it, but stopped when he realised he was just making himself feel sick. He stood, unresisting, against the gatepost assessing the situation.

His arms were being held by the two men who had passed a few minutes ago. They were both a good ten centimetres taller than him, and while the one on his right was slim and wiry looking , the other was well-built and muscular. The skinny guy, who looked as if he could be a relative of the woman's jerked on his arm to get his attention.

'Come to gloat, have you?,' he said, heatedly. 'Are you proud of what you've done?'

'I don't know where you get the idea that Starfleet or Enterprise have anything to do with what happened here,' Malcolm said, playing for time, hoping that his head would stop spinning soon. Skinny shook his arm like a dog worrying a bone, banging him into the gatepost again.

'Of course it's your fault!' He was getting agitated now, stepping in front of Malcolm to shout in his face. 'If you hadn't been out there, sticking your noses where they'd no right to be, stirring up all sorts of alien shit, this would never have happened. Bastard,' he finished, releasing his hold on Malcolm's arm long enough to take a swing at him.

He was aiming to hit Malcolm full in the face, but at the last moment Malcolm ducked to one side and Skinny hit the gatepost—hard. As Skinny screamed in a mixture of frustration and pain, Malcolm took advantage of the distraction to release himself from the other man's hold. He quickly turned and kicked the guy on the knee, earning a grunt of pain, before following it up with a jab to the throat. As the grip on his arm loosened he used a couple of nicely-judged moves to subdue the man. Muscles may spend most of his days in the gym, he thought, but he obviously knows nothing about unarmed combat. Malcolm was just beginning to think he might have the situation under control, when the woman, who had done nothing so far other than add to Skinny's screams, jumped on

his back and started yanking on his hair and clawing at his eyes.

Taking a deep breath he jerked his head sharply backwards, hitting the woman as hard as he could in the face. She slid down his back and sank to the ground howling, blood pouring from her broken nose. Malcolm took a step away from her, seeing stars again as he quickly turned to check on the two men. He was just reaching for his communicator when a heavy weight crashed into his shoulders and he found himself lying prone on the debris-strewn ground. As he tried to rise he was twice kicked viciously in the ribs by a heavily booted foot. He stopped his attempts to get up and lay still, trying to catch his breath and ignore the pain in his head, and side. Cold metal caressed his cheek and he raised his head to find himself staring down both barrels of a shotgun held by a man he had never seen before, but who wore what looked like a quasi-military uniform of some sort.

'Josh, stop your yelling and look after Ellen,' the newcomer said to Skinny, command clear in his tone. 'Mike,' he said, to the now stirring Muscles. 'Mike! You okay?'

'Yeah.' Mike struggled to his feet, grimacing as he put weight on the leg Mal colm had kicked. 'Who'd 'a thought such a runt could throw punches like that.'

'You would never have had reason to find out if it weren't for Josh's stupidity,' the gunman said.

'Stupidity?' Josh protested, looking up from where he was crouched alongside Ellen, a blood-soaked cloth held to her face.. 'The bastard stood there and claimed they had nothing to do with this. What d'ya expect me to do?'

'I expect you to follow orders,' the gunman said, coldly.

Malcolm listened to the exchange. No one seemed to be paying him any attention. He half considered making a grab for the shotgun, which was still pressed against his face, but the man holding it had his finger on the triggers and Malcolm had no wish to test which of them had the quicker reflexes.

Finally the man turned back towards him.

'On your feet,' he ordered.

Malcolm stared at him along the barrel of the gun.

'I said, on your feet, motherfucker.' The gun never wavered as he took another well-aimed swing with his boot.

Malcolm dragged himself to his knees. He had to stop there, swaying slightly, for a moment, gasping at the sudden knife-like pain in his ribs, before eventually managing to struggle to his feet.

'Who the hell are you, and what's all this rubbish about Starfleet being responsible for the Xindi attack?'

Malcolm meant to be authoritative, but even to his ears it came out sounding more like an exhausted whine. He cursed himself mentally for letting the situation get so far out of his control, for being so wrapped up in his own misery that he hadn't even considered the possibility of danger. And he thanked whatever gods cared to listen that at least Trip wasn't caught up in this mess.

'We are the Citizens Of Earth,' the gunman said, the capitalisation clear in his voice.

Malcolm wasn't sure what to say to that, but fortunately the man didn't seem to need a response.

'We represent the people of Earth ignored by the government and ridden roughshod over by Starfleet and their cronies the Vulcans. We are fighting the oppression and standing up to say enough is enough, We won't sit still and do nothing while our taxes line Starfleet pockets and the Vulcans use Earth to fight their battles for them.'

'And you are?' Malcolm interrupted, pleased to hear that his voice sounded stronger. He hoped he didn't look as shaky as he felt.

'Colonel Andrew J. Hartson, district commander.' He introduced himself almost politely before continuing his declamation. 'We are your Nemesis, Starfleet, and we are going to show you and your bosses the Vulcans that the Citizens of Earth will be heard.'

'Starfleet does not take orders from the Vulcans,' Malcolm protested.

'No? Are you telling me that the second in command of Enterprise isn't a Vulcan?' Hartson demanded, emphasising his point by poking Malcolm in the chest with his shotgun. 'Are you telling me that, Starfleet?'

'Sub-commander T'Pol is—' Malcolm started, but the colonel wasn't interested in explanations.

'Is a serpent in the heart of Enterprise, using that ship to further Vulcan expansionist aims. Using it to fight Vulcan's enemies and in doing so bringing down death and destruction upon the face of the Earth.' The colonel was working himself up into a passion. So far the other three had remained silent, but they were starting to get restless.

Malcolm was seriously worried about how he was going to get away from them. His head was still spinning disconcertingly, any but the shallowest of breaths sent daggers of pain stabbing into his side and he was beginning to feel decidedly nauseous. The colonel wasn't actually looking at Malcolm as he spoke,

and the other three were watching their commander. He decided to take an experimental couple of steps away, but the skinny man, Josh, spotted him immediately.

'Hey, where d'ya think you're going?' he said, making a grab for him.

Instinctively Malcolm resisted, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his ri bs as he tackled Josh, this time making sure he laid him out cold. It gave him a certain savage satisfaction and it did reduce the odds slightly, but it was ultimately futile. Almost before Josh hit the ground, the other man, Mike, had Malcolm in an arm-lock, pulling him in front of Hartson.

'I'm disappointed in you, Starfleet,' Harston said. 'Deeply disappointed. I thought you people were supposed to be intelligent. You should realise you can't escape your Nemesis. Our time is now, Starfleet. The Citizens of Earth are rising up to be counted.'

Malcolm desperately tried to think of something to counter Hartson's arguments, but it was becoming clear to him that he was dealing with someone who was more than a little unbalanced, who believed the rubbish he was spouting with an almost religious fervour. Someone who really believed that Starfleet was responsible for the Xindi attack and the horrific carnage it caused—Starfleet and, by extrapolation, Malcolm himself.

'Show him the damage, Colonel,' the woman, Ellen, urged, her blood-stained face full of hate. 'Show him just what he and his friends have done.'

Yeah,' Mike chimed in, twisting Malcolm's arm a bit further up his back. 'Give him a close-up look at the trench. A real close look,' he said, significantly.

'Good idea,' Hartson agreed. 'Bring him.'

The colonel strode off in the direction of the trench, Mike following, dragging Malcolm with him. Ellen seemed uncertain whether she should go with them or stay with the still unconscious Josh. In the end she decided to go.

As she caught up with them she spat at Malcolm, 'I hope you've got a head for heights. Wouldn't want you not to enjoy your trip.'

Their intention was clear. They were going to throw him over the edge, into the trench.

The trench was at least a kilometre deep. Even though its sides were not sheer, there was no way he could survive that fall. He was injured and outnumbered three to one by armed fanatics. Malcolm went cold, real fear finally griping him. He tried to block out the panic curling in his gut and concentrate, desperate to come up with something, anything, to help him escape. After all that he'd survived on Enterprise, being killed on Earth by a bunch of lunatics obsessed with conspiracy theories was so stupid he could scream. When he looked up and saw that the rim of the trench barely 100 meters away he very nearly did scream as the fear and panic started to overwhelm him, flooding his system with yet more adrenaline and shredding the last of his self-control.

Then suddenly things got a whole lot worse.

'Hey! Hey, what the hell are you doing?'

Malcolm's heart fell as he heard the shout and recognised Trip's voice. The group turned towards the sound, Mike swinging Malcolm around, giving him a clear view of Trip near the gates, jogging towards them.

'Let go of him, you bastards.'

The colonel had been carrying his shotgun in one hand, down by his side. Malcolm couldn't be sure that Trip had even noticed it.

He took as deep a breath as he could managed and yelled, 'They're armed, Trip. Stay away.'

Hartson swung the shotgun round, hitting Malcolm on the side of his head with the butt. Mike let go of him in order to advance on Trip and Malcolm fell to the ground. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was Trip, shouting into his communicator as he dove for cover behind a gatepost. As the darkness took him, he heard the blast of the shotgun being fired.

* * *

Captain Archer was in the armoury when the call came in for an emergency transport. T'Pol, who was on the bridge, operated the transporter from there and alerted Doctor Phlox before finally informing the captain. She had little information to impart, only that Tucker had said that Reed was injured and that they were under attack. Realising that by the time he'd gone up two decks to the transporter alcove everyone would probably have made it down to sickbay, he went straight there.

Entering the room, he took in the scene at a glance. Reed was on a biobed, unconscious, with Phlox and a medical technician running scans and exchanging quiet words. Tucker was hovering uncertainly at the foot of the bed. Noticing that Reed was in uniform, Archer thought he had a fair idea of what had happened and mentally castigated himself for not making clear to Reed that civilian dress was essential for the visit to Florida.

'Trip,' he said, approaching the engineer and gripping his shoulder. 'Are you all right? What happened?'

Tucker was trembling, his eyes an intense blue against his too pale face.

'Cap'n,' he acknowledged. 'I nearly lost him. I nearly got Malcolm killed.' He broke off choking back a sob.

Phlox looked up briefly from his scanner and caught Archer's eye.

'Commander Tucker is uninjured, Captain., but he has experienced a severe emotional trauma,' he said quietly. 'The best thing you can do is give him comfort and reassurance, and perhaps a warm drink. Sickbay is probably not the best place for him at the moment.'

'What about Malcolm? How badly is he hurt?'

'Lieutenant Reed's injuries are not life threatening. Cracked ribs, concussion, a hairline fracture of the skull, but fortunately no evidence of subdural haematoma; it'll be some time before he regains consciousness. I'll keep you informed.'

'Thank you, Doctor.' He turned his attention to Tucker, who had reached out a hand to touch Reed's still booted foot, apparently oblivious to what was going on around him.

'Come on, Trip,' Archer put an arm around Tucker's shoulder. 'Malcolm's going to be fine,' he said, deliberately using Reed's standard response to any enquiry as to how he was feeling. 'Let's give the doctor space to work.'

'I don't want to leave him,' Tucker objected.

'I know you don't, Trip, but it's going to be a while before he's conscious. Phlox'll keep us informed. You'll be here when he comes round, I promise.' He gently guided Tucker towards the doors. 'We'll go to my quarters, and you can tell me what happened.'

Since they were passing the mess hall anyway, Archer considered calling in for some warm milk, knowing Tucker found it relaxing. But as they rounded the corner a noisy group of crewmen entered the mess, and he changed his mind. Once in his quarters he sat Tucker on the couch while he busied himself fixing a

hot drink for them both. He found some chamomile tea at the back of the cupboard and made them both a mug, putting two sugars in Tucker's. He wasn't sure if 'hot sweet tea' really was good for shock, or if it was just an old wives' tale, but it seemed like it would be better than caffeine-laden coffee.

'Here.' He handed a mug to Tucker and took his own over to his desk, sitting in the chair there to avoid crowding his friend.

Tucker took a sip of the tea. He screwed his face up a bit at the taste, but continued to drink it, his eyes and attention focussed on the mug. Archer drank his own tea, letting Tucker settle. After a few minutes he decided it was time to start talking.

'Feeling better?'

Tucker looked up and Archer could see he had more colour in his face, but there was still a lost, scared look in his eyes.

'I nearly got him killed,' he said, again. His hands were shaking as he put his mug down.

'I'm sure that's not true, Trip.' Archer said. 'I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt Malcolm.' Just dump him because that's easier than dealing with the possibility that he might die one day, his rebellious mind continued, but he wasn't cruel enough to say it out loud.

'I knew about the vigilantes,' Tucker objected. 'That he shouldn't go to Palmdale in uniform. But when he turned up in the shuttle-bay and said he was going with me instead of you—I was just so mad, Cap'n. Mad at you for setting it up. Mad at Malcolm for letting himself be set up. I wasn't thinking straight, but that's no excuse. I should'a told him he couldn't go there in uniform, and I didn't. I'm his superior officer, his...his friend. It was my responsibility, and I failed him.'

'If it was anyone's responsibility, it was mine,' Archer pointed out. 'I really did have a meeting; Admiral Forrest caught me on my way down to the shuttle-bay. I was going to come and tell you, explain why I couldn't go with you. Then I met Malcolm. I knew you'd go anyway and I didn't want you to be there on your own. I knew Malcolm would look out for you, whatever you said to him, so I talked him into it.' He paused and wiped a hand over his face. 'I'm sure I mentioned to him about getting changed, but I guess I didn't make it clear that it really was necessary. Didn't tell him that there'd been reports of the vigilantes in the area, or that people had been attacked.'

'He did too,' Tucker said, watching his hands as he twisted them together, 'look out for me. I tried to make him go away, leave me alone. I was kind of nasty to him, but he followed me 'round anyway. Stayed back a ways—like he didn't want me to know he was there. I'd catch sight of him sometimes.' He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 'It was good to know he was there—still with me.'

'So what happened?'

'I don't know the details. We were uptown, at Lizzie's old school. I went round the back, to the bench where I always used to wait for her.' He looked up at Archer, surprise in his tear-washed eyes. 'It was still there. The building was a wreck, but the bench was still there.' His eyes dropped to his hands again. 'I sat for a while. I'd left Malcolm by the gates. When I came back round to the front, there were these people, three guys and a woman. They'd got hold of Malcolm—one of the guys was on the ground, Malcolm must'a decked him—they were pulling him towards the trench...' He broke off, jumping to his feet in his agitation. 'Christ, Jon, they were going to throw him into the trench!'

'Are you sure?' Archer was shocked. He knew the vigilantes were dangerous, there'd been other instances of Starfleet personnel being attacked, but nothing like this.

'What else could it 'a been? He was obviously hurt and they were dragging him over there. It sure as hell wasn't to show him the view!' His eyes blazed as he glared at Archer.

'I'm not doubting you, Trip. It's just, murder is not something these people have tried before. I'll check with Malcolm and make sure the police have a full report.'

Apparently placated, Tucker turned away and continued his report.

'I yelled at them, and when Malcolm saw me he yelled back that they were armed. Good thing he did too. One of the guys had a shotgun, let fly with both

barrels. Thanks to Malcolm, I was able to get behind the gatepost. I contacted Enterprise, and—well, you know the rest.'

'And what about you, Trip? Are you okay?'

'Yeah, sure. Skinned my knees a bit hitting the ground, but I'm fine.'

'You know that's not what I meant,' Archer said, with gentle reproach.

Tucker sighed. 'No, I know, Jon. It's just...Malcolm nearly died down there. At home, on Earth, where we should be safe. It was my fault.' He shook

his head, forestalling Archer's objection. 'I let him go down there in uniform when I knew he shouldn't. I nearly got him killed, just because I was mad at him for still caring about me. And now he'll hate me for it,' he finished, sadly.

'I doubt that.'

Tucker didn't answer, but hunkered down by the dog cushion to pet Porthos, absently scratching behind the beagle's ears. Archer watched him without saying

anything until he noticed Tucker's shoulders begin to shake. He crossed the room and knelt on the floor besides his friend.

'Come here,' he said, pulling Tucker into a hug. 'It's all right, Trip. Malcolm's going to be all right.'

He stayed on the floor next to his dog's bed, holding his best friend close, letting the man cry, until eventually all Tucker had left was the occasional hiccuping sob.

'Let's find somewhere more comfortable.' Archer clambered to his feet, holding out a hand to help Tucker up. 'My bones are getting too old to be sitting on the floor,' he added, with a smile.

He sat Tucker down on the couch. 'Would you like another drink?'

'Not of that stuff,' Tucker said, with a grimace. 'What was that? It tasted foul.'

Archer laughed. 'Chamomile tea. I think Malcolm gave it to me once under the mistaken impression that I liked it.' He produced two glasses and poured a shot of bourbon into each. 'Here,' he handed one to Tucker and sat alongside him. 'I don't suppose Phlox would approve, but a small one's not going to do any harm.'

He watched while Tucker took a sip of the bourbon, remembering the last time the two of them had shared a drink. That time Tucker had insisted that he had no time for a relationship, that breaking up with Reed was for the best and that Reed would eventually see it that way too. It hadn't been a very convincing argument at the time. It was looking even less so now.

'So what are you going to do, Trip?'

'Huh?'

'About Malcolm. It's obvious that you still love him.'

'Cap'n, I don't—'

'I know. I've heard all the arguments before, remember? But you're wrong, Trip. Pushing Malcolm away is not the answer. It's going to be bad enough in the Delphic Expanse as it is. Our friendships, our relationships, are going to be more important than ever, not less. They're all we have, Trip, they're what keep us grounded. They're a sign of our humanity that we can't afford to lose.'

'But Lizzie, she—her being dead—changes things. Changes me. I'm so mixed up inside right now, I don't know if I can be happy.' He struggled to explain. 'When I'm with Malcolm, I'm happy, even now. But that's not right, Cap'n. How can I be happy when Lizzie is dead—when seven million people are dead?'

'Trip, I'm not suggesting that you shouldn't mourn Lizzie, that you should suddenly be spectacularly happy again, like you were when you and Malcolm first got together. But lovers, friends, this is what they're for—to help and support you through something like this. It's not wrong to feel joy, Trip, however bleak things are. It's the moments of joy that keep us going, they show us what we're doing this for. You shouldn't shut them out. They're a part of life, just as sadness is. A necessary part.'

They were interrupted by the comm.

'Phlox to Archer.'

Trip jumped and looked anxiously at the comm panel. Archer stood and thumbed the switch.

'Archer here. Go ahead.'

'Captain, I thought you would like to know that Lieutenant Reed is now sleeping comfortably. He's under sedation at present, but I expect him to wake within the next hour.'

'Thank you, Doctor. We'll be along shortly.'

'There's no rush,' Phlox said, brightly, before closing the connection.

'How about it?' Archer smiled at his friend. 'Shall we go and see Malcolm?'

Tucker stood, rubbing his hands awkwardly on his thighs. 'Cap'n, about what you said, about Malcolm. I do still love him—never stopped, but I don't know...If I lost him...' he broke off with a small sound, half gasp, half sob.

Archer reached out to his friend.

'No let me finish. I need to say this. I know you're right, that I shouldn't push him away, but it's so difficult. I loved Lizzie so much and now she's gone. And I love Malcolm so much. But even at the best of times he had a dangerous job, and now it's ten times, a hundred times, worse. And I just don't

know. If I let myself love him, and then I lose him too, what will I do, Cap'n? How will I survive?'

'I can't tell you that, Trip. I don't have any easy answers. Any one of us could die on this mission. We all could. But I do know that if we let that fear rule our lives, then we might as well give up now. Trip, I'm not asking you to forget Lizzie, I'm asking you not to forget Malcolm. Just think about what I've said. That's all I ask. Now, come on. Let's go and see Malcolm.'

* * *

Malcolm was floating.

He was warm and comfortable—and safe. He knew he was safe because Trip was with him, holding his hand. He smiled and tightened his grip on his lover's fingers. He was too tired to wake up properly and open his eyes, but he knew everything was all right and that Trip would look after him.

Still holding tightly to his anchor, Malcolm let himself drift back down into the dark warmth.

The next time Malcolm started to surface, it was the sounds that penetrated his sleep—soft mechanical beeps interspersed with occasional rustles and chirps. Sickbay, his fogged mind told him, the all too familiar surroundings recognised even through the barrier of pain-killers and anaesthetic.

He remembered dreaming that Trip was with him, and that they were happy. It was a lovely dream and he was reluctant to leave it, but there was another, unfamiliar, sound calling for his attention. He lay still, sifting through the noises, identifying them: the bio-bed's monitoring equipment; Phlox's animals; his own short, laboured breaths. There it was again, a sniff—as if someone was trying not to cry.

Finally it dawned on him that the hand gripping his was not just a remnant of his happy dream. Even if he hadn't held that hand often enough to recognise every square centimetre by touch alone, he would have known it was Trip. No one else would be holding his hand—would they? Overcome by the need to be sure, he forced his heavy eyelids open, squinting against the sudden brightness.

Trip was there. He was sitting, head bowed, occasionally sniffing back tears—and he had hold of Malcolm's hand, an intimacy they hadn't shared for weeks now. It was too much for Malcolm, and he sniffed back tears of his own.

The small noise was immediately noticed, and Malcolm found himself the focus of Trip's watery blue gaze.

'Hi,'

Trip sounded nervous, uncertain.

'Trip.' Malcolm's voice was not much more than a whisper. He tried to clear his throat, but stopped with a wince when his ribs protested.

'Is your throat dry? D'you want a drink?'

At Malcolm's nod, Trip picked up a beaker and held it, angling the straw so that Malcolm could drink without sitting up.

'Better?'

'Yes, thank you,' Malcolm said, his voice a little stronger. 'Are you all right? I heard Hartson fire at you, but I couldn't see...I was afraid...'

'The only thing he damaged was the gatepost. Don't worry, I'm fine.' Trip hurried to reassure him, putting the beaker down and slipping his hand back into Malcolm's.

'That's my line,' Malcolm said, his tentative half-smile turning into a grimace as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position.

'Phlox said you should lie still. I'm not to let you sit up or move around too much.'

Malcolm relaxed back into his pillows with a sigh. Trip was watching him with an almost frightened expression, causing Malcolm to run a mental inventory of his condition. He had a headache, his shoulders were sore and his ribs hurt, but even allowing for the mellowing effect of the anaesthetic, there didn't seem to be anything seriously wrong.

'What's the matter, Trip?', he asked, wishing his eyes wouldn't keep trying to close.

'I'm sorry, Malcolm.' Trip's grip on his fingers tightened. 'I know I've been real nasty to you lately, and now I've nearly gotten you killed. But I didn't mean it. I was just mad at the cap'n and you. You gotta believe me, I didn't mean it.'

Malcolm puzzled over Trip's words. The drugs in his system were making concentration difficult, and even after several moments careful thought, he couldn't make sense of what Trip was saying. He must have looked as baffled as he felt, because when he didn't respond, Trip rushed to explain.

'I knew about the vigilantes, and that you shouldn't go in uniform. But when you turned up and said you were going instead of the cap'n, I was so mad I didn't say anything. This was all my fault. I'm sorry.' A tear slipped through Trip's lashes and rolled down his face. Malcolm watched, fascinated, as it slid into the corner of Trip's mouth, licking his own

lips reflexively.

'You knew?' he asked, his mind trying to process Trip's confession. 'I was attacked because of my uniform, and you knew,' he repeated, the enormity of what Trip was telling him beginning to sink in.

'I'm so sorry, Malcolm. I didn't mean it to happen. That's not why I didn't tell you. I was mad at you, but I didn't mean for you to get hurt.'

There were fresh tears on Trip's cheeks. Malcolm focussed on them, confused. In spite of what Trip was saying, there was a kernel of hope, like a pain in his heart. Hope that Trip still cared about him, cared enough to be here in sickbay with him, crying because he, Malcolm, was hurt. But the Citizens Of Earth weren't the only people to have hurt Malcolm recently, and before he could let himself hope, Malcolm had to be sure.

'Why are you here?'

His eyes were closed as he asked the question. He needed to know, but if he'd misunderstood, if Trip's tears weren't for him, he didn't want to see the rejection in Trip's eyes.

There was silence. Then Trip's hand left his as he answered in a sad voice. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I've treated you so bad. I'll understand if...I just had to see you were all right. I'm sorry,' he said yet

again.

Malcolm heard the scrape of the chair as Trip stood, and he forced his eyes open.

'No!' he gasped, his abandoned hand frantically reaching for Trip's. 'Don't go. Please. I didn't mean that.' He tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back tears of his own as Trip once more held his hand in a fierce grip. 'It's just...I need to know what you want, Trip. I...I want to hope that...but I can't keep...It hurts, Trip, when you push me away. It hurts so much. I can't keep

doing it.'

'I know, Malcolm, I know,' Trip said, softly, using his free hand to wipe the tears from Malcolm's face. 'It hurts me too. But I'm so mixed up right now. I'm sorry.'

'Stop saying that.'

'But...'

'No buts. I can't think straight, and I'm too tired to fight the drugs any more. Come back later, and we'll talk. Just promise me you'll come back?' Malcolm begged.

'I'll come back, Malcolm, I promise.' I can't promise anything else right now, but I can promise that. I'll come back tomorrow and we'll talk. You get some sleep now.'

Trip gave his hand a final squeeze before releasing it and walking away, turning as he opened the doors to give Malcolm a rather strained smile and a little wave.

As the doors slid shut behind Trip, Malcolm let his eyes close, but in spite of his tiredness, sleep eluded him as his mind endlessly replayed their conversation.

Trip's admission that he'd known that it could prove dangerous for Malcolm to go to Palmdale in uniform had shaken him. Malcolm didn't give his trust easily, but he was used to trusting Trip—on duty, in their relationship, with his life. That Trip had apparently betrayed that trust shocked and upset him. They'd been lovers for over a year and during that time Malcolm had learned the hard way that Trip's method of dealing with disappointment and grief was to push away those close to him. So his refusal to let anyone help him deal with Elizabeth's death, although it hurt, didn't really surprise him. But the idea that Trip would deliberately do something that put Malcolm in danger—that left a chill in his heart. It was only when Phlox administered his next round of medication that he finally fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning Malcolm was allowed to sit up, propped against pillows. Phlox had stepped down the drugs, so he was more alert. The corollary was increased discomfort, but Malcolm considered that a fair trade-off for a clearer

mind. The right side of his face was one big, painful bruise, courtesy of the blow from the shotgun butt, his ribs ached abominably, and the combination of delayed shock and concussion left him too nauseous to eat, but at least he could

think straight.

It was mid-morning when Trip appeared in sickbay.

'Ah, Commander,' Phlox hailed him cheerily. 'Come to visit Mr. Reed, I dare say. I was just about to go to the mess hall to meet with Ensign Sato. She wants to practice her Denobulan. Can I bring either of you anything? No? Well, I'll leave you to keep Mr. Reed company, Commander. I expect you to still

be here when I get back, Lieutenant!'

On that, not entirely jocular, parting shot the doctor bustled out of sickbay, leaving the two of them eyeing each other warily across the room.

'You're looking better.'

'Yes, thanks. I'm feeling...more awake.'

Malcolm watched Trip fidgeting uncertainly, as if he was unsure of his welcome. He looked worried, and a little frightened, and suddenly Malcolm couldn't bear to think he was the cause of Trip's fear.

'You're making the place look untidy, Trip,' he said with a sigh. 'Come over here and sit down.'

As Trip approached, Malcolm held out his hand. Trip took it, gripping it tightly for a moment, before releasing it and pulling up a chair.

'Malcolm, I owe you an apology, and an explanation.' When Malcolm would have spoken, Trip shook his head and hurried on. 'I'm sorry for being such an ass, pushing you away and all, but...but...' He stopped, eyes closed, swallowing hard.

'It's all right, Trip, I understand.' And he did understand why Trip had pushed him away. That was the easy part. 'It's all right.'

'No, it's not all right. It was never all right. But we can talk about that later. Right now I need to explain, about yesterday.'

Malcolm didn't say anything. When Trip glanced at him, he returned the look with an outward calm he was far from feeling. Trip looked away again.

'When you turned up in the shuttle-bay and said you were going with me, I was angry. I thought it was a set-up, something you and Jon had cooked up between you. I know now that it was all Jon's doing. I should 'a known you wouldn't do something like that. I'm sorry.'

'Is that why you didn't warn me about the vigilantes? Because you were annoyed with me?'

'No! Well, yes,' Trip amended, honestly. 'But it wasn't like it sounds. I didn't—not tell you, it just—slipped my mind. I was angry, and I forgot. I know it sounds stupid, but it's the truth. You've gotta believe me Malcolm. I wouldn't ever do anything to get you hurt. I didn't deliberately not tell you. You don't think I'd do that, do you?'

He looked up as he spoke, and Malcolm could see the horror in his eyes as he realised that that was exactly what Malcolm had thought.

'Oh God, Malcolm, no,' he protested, tears in his eyes. 'Please say you don't think that!'

'I didn't know what to think, Trip. I was confused yesterday, when you were trying to explain, and drugged, but it seemed to me that's exactly what you were saying. I didn't want to believe it, but you kept saying it was your fault, and that you knew about the vigilantes.'

Trip reached across and caught hold of Malcolm's hand in both of his.

'Malcolm, I'm so sorry. I never meant for you to think that. I guess I wasn't thinking clearly myself yesterday. You're the one good thing left in my life. There's no way I ever want to hurt you. When I came round the corner and

saw them, holding you, dragging you...' He stopped as tears threatened to overwhelm him, swallowing several times before going on. 'I realised how close I was to losing you. I was so frightened, Malcolm.'

'Me too, love,' Malcolm said, wondering at how odd his voice sounded—small and lost. The relief that Trip hadn't deliberately put him in danger was the last straw for his overwrought nerves.

The hand Trip was holding started trembling, then his whole body was shaking. He could feel the tightness building in his chest; the fear when he realised what Hartson and his cronies intended to do; the panic when Trip came on the scene and into danger. All at once, as if a damn had broken, tears were streaming down his face.

'I let my guard down. I thought we were safe there. I only followed you because I didn't want you to be alone, not because it was dangerous. I was so scared.' He paused long enough to gulp down a ragged breath. 'They were going to push me in the trench, Trip. Throw me over the edge. I wanted to say goodbye to you, and then I saw you. I thought Hartson would shoot you. I was so scared. So very scared.'

Trip jumped to his feet and scooped Malcolm into a careful hug, rocking him gently, trying to reassure and calm him.

'It's all right, Mal. You're safe. We're both safe.' 'It's all over, darlin'. Stop crying now. Everything's all right.'

Malcolm clung to Trip as his tears ran their course, before struggling to regain his composure, wiping his eyes on a corner of his sheet and blowing his nose on a tissue Trip provided.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I don't know where it came from.'

'I do,' Trip said, settling him back against the pillows. 'It came from being scared out of your wits yesterday, and from me treating you like shit for months.'

'Oh, Trip. What are we going to do?'

'I don't know, Malcolm. I don't want to hurt you.' He reached for Malcolm's hand, linking their fingers together. 'But I can't forget Lizzie. When she died, it was like my whole world just collapsed around me. I need to fight the bastards who did this, who killed my baby sister.'

'I understand that, Trip. God knows, if it had been Madeline who was killed I'd probably feel the same. I just wish you could let me help, let me be there for you.'

'It's difficult. I want to be with you, to be like we were before, but I can't. It's like, if I let you in, I'll be shutting her out.'

'It doesn't have to be like that. I don't want to take Lizzie's place.'

'But that's just it. You could take her place. You could die like she did, and then what would I do?'

'I nearly died yesterday, on Earth. Was that any easier to deal with because we're not together?' Malcolm shook the hand that was clasping his, trying to force home his argument. 'Was it?'

'No.' Trip stared down at the floor, his voice no more than a whisper.

'Look at me, Trip,' Malcolm ordered. When Trip complied, he carried on. 'Either of us could die on this mission. We both go on away missions, and engineering is just as dangerous as the armoury. But that's no reason to shut yourself off. If you had known beforehand that Lizzie was going to die, would you have stopped loving her?'

'That's not the same,' Trip objected.

'It's not disrespectful to her memory to try and carry on with your life. It's not wrong to take what happiness you can. Yes, I might die, but you can't let that fear rule your life. You have to let hope be stronger than fear, or you're lost.'

'I don't know, Malcolm. I do still love you, always have. But it just feels so wrong to be happy right now.'

'All I ask is that you try. And if you can't do it for yourself, love, try and do it for me, please. I need you, Trip. If not as a lover again yet, then as a friend. It's been so hard these last months, I've been so lonely. I love you and I want back all that we had. But most of all, I want your friendship. This mission is going to be bad enough as it is, please don't make it worse than it has to be by shutting me out.'

'I can't promise anything, Malcolm. It's hard enough getting from one day to the next. I can't plan ahead anymore, make commitments. But I'll try. I will try.'

* * *

Captain Archer glanced across the mess hall as the doors slid open. He wasn't exactly averse to company—he wouldn't have been sitting in a public room if he were—but neither was he in the mood for idle chit-chat with a late-dining crewman. When he saw that the newcomer was Commander Tucker, he let out a little sigh of relief, before calling his friend over.

'You're up late. Come and share a nightcap?' Archer indicated the half empty bottle of bourbon on the table in front of him.

'Don't mind if I do, Cap'n,' Tucker said, finding himself a glass and pulling up a chair opposite Archer. 'It's not that late though.' He and Archer were both off duty, in jeans and t-shirts.

Tucker helped himself to a drink from Archer's bottle and asked, 'How's Porthos holding up? If no people have returned from the Delphic Expanse, I doubt any dog has.'

'He must be doing better than we are. He's fast asleep.'

Archer sipped his whiskey and thought about his dog, smiling to himself. Tucker sat, playing with his glass, lost in his own thoughts. Silence stretched

companionably between them until Archer spoke.

'How are you doing Trip, you and Malcolm?'

'We're doing okay, Cap'n. It's not like it was. Don't know if it ever will be. Malcolm's good. I think. He says he understands. We're taking it slow.' He broke off, scrubbing a hand across his face and through his hair. 'Heck, Jon. It's just so...I try to be happy, for Malcolm's sake, but then I think about Lizzie, how she was taken from me—how Malcolm could be too. I try not to shut him out, I don't want to hurt him. But I get so scared of losing him, and I feel the pain of Lizzie's death crushing me down. I know hate's not the answer, but sometimes it feels like that's all I've got left.'

'I know, Trip, I know.' Archer spoke slowly, reluctant to add to his friend's burdens, yet needing the support that comes from sharing fears. 'When I got this job, commanding the first warp five ship was about as big a responsibility as I could have imagined. Then we began running into so many...bad guys. I had to start thinking more about the safety of eighty-three people.'

'And now the stakes have gotten a lot bigger,' Tucker murmured.

Archer downed the last of the bourbon in his glass. 'Weight of the world, Trip.'

'Literally.' Tucker stared into space a while, watching his own demons. He leaned forward, facing Archer with a sudden intensity. 'I can't wait to get in the Expanse, Cap'n, find the people who did this. And tell me we won't be tip-toeing around, none of that non-interference crap T'Pol's always shoving down our throats. Maybe it's a good thing she's leaving.'

Archer shot him a concerned look, worried at the ease with which Tucker could whip up hatred and his thirst for vengeance.

'We'll do what we have to, Trip,' he promised. 'Whatever it takes. We'll find the Xindi and stop them attacking Earth. But we're here to stop what might

happen, not to avenge what's already done. We're not here to push them into the abyss.'

'That's not fair, Cap'n,' Trip said, a mulish set to his mouth. 'Malcolm wasn't to blame for the attack on Earth. Starfleet wasn't to blame. The Xindi are.'

'I know that, Trip. But we're not vigilantes. We're out here trying to save Humanity. If we sink to the same level as those who launched an unprovoked attack on us, what's the point?'

Before Tucker could respond, Enterprise shuddered around them, obviously the result of weapons fire. Alarmed, they both leapt to their feet and headed to the bridge.

The turbo-lift door slid open and Archer and Tucker staggered onto the bridge as the ship shook again.

'It's Duras,' Sub-commander T'Pol said, vacating the captain's chair and moving to her science station, steady on her feet regardless of the battering the ship was taking.

Archer moved to stand by his chair, turning to address Reed.

'You've been wanting to test those new torpedoes.'

'What yield?' Reed asked, clinging to his console for balance.

'Start low. We just want to get them off our backs.'

Reed nodded, concentrating as he fired two torpedoes. Archer had time to notice that Tucker had gone to stand behind the tactical station, at Reed's left

shoulder. Then Reed was speaking again, shouting to be heard above the racket of the Klingon attack.

'They're still on our backs, sir.'

'Bring the yield up. Fifty percent.' Archer slid into his seat as he spoke, turning towards Reed in time to see a happy smirk light up the armoury officer's face as he fired again.

'They're dropping to impulse,' Mayweather reported. A fact confirmed as the attack on Enterprise suddenly ceased.

'Stand down weapons, sir?' Reed looked calm and composed, despite spluttering electrical discharges from the equipment banked behind him.

Archer nodded to Reed then crossed to the science station.

'How long will it take them to repair their engines?'

'Impossible to determine,' T'Pol replied.

'Give me an educated guess,' Archer ground out, irritated by her Vulcan calm.

'Three hours, possibly more.' Her expression made it clear that the estimate was a concession to Human imprecision.

'What's our speed?'

'Warp three, sir,' Mayweather said.

'Go to four point five. If we make it to Vulcan space before they get their engines back, they'll think twice about giving us any more trouble.'

The emergency was over. Archer sank into his chair, drained. He was tired and the two glasses of whiskey he'd drunk were lying uneasily in his stomach. He should go to bed, but he was having trouble finding the energy to move. He sat in the centre of the bridge, listening to his officers work around him.

He'd been so proud to sit in this seat when Enterprise first launched. Hell, he was still proud—of the ship and her crew; of what they'd learned in the short time they'd been in space; of what they'd achieved. They'd set out on an adventure, one with so much promise—strange new worlds—where no man has gone before. And now—was it really only two years later?—now they were flying

into untold danger with the fate of Humanity resting on their shoulders. Had the vigilantes been right? Was it Enterprise's mission of exploration that had brought the Xindi to Earth? Were they somehow responsible for the attack?

Archer shook himself, trying to cast off his dark mood. Bed. He needed sleep. It was just tiredness and the whiskey making him maudlin.

Standing, he caught sight of his armoury officer and chief engineer. Reed was working on something at his station, his trademark half-smile quirking his lips. Tucker was standing, not at his own engineering station, but hovering protectively behind Reed at tactical. It was a tableau that Archer hadn't seen in far too long. They're getting there, he thought. They've still got a long road ahead, but they are getting there.

As he left the bridge, Archer thanked whatever gods were looking over him that heading into the Delphic Expanse, he would at least have that glimmer of hope to sustain him.

One less thing to worry about.


End file.
